


Darcey Potter

by Lyn_Laine



Series: The Four Fem Harrys Project [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Floating Timeline, Gryffindor Harry, Gryffindor Harry Potter, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:11:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: Four Fem Harrys. Four Houses. Some things change, and some things really don't. Darcey is the Gryffindor Fem Harry. Fem Harry. Gryffindor Harry. Part of the Four Fem Harrys Project. Harry Potter x Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle is Different from Voldemort.





	1. Darcey One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the plan.
> 
> I am going to write four Fem Harrys. Each one, for me, fits the perfect profile of a different Hogwarts house. Each will also have a different name, so readers can differentiate better. Based on their house profiling, they will each also have different wand woods and Patronuses. In all other respects, however, they will just be Harry. I will take that starting canvas and create further differences with it within the text itself. These girls will be similar yet dissimilar to the Harry that you know, and also similar yet dissimilar to each other.
> 
> I will make four different stories and rotate through chapters for each girl, telling her full story with her at the helm. I call this the Four Fem Harrys Project.
> 
> This document you're reading right now is the Gryffindor Fem Harry.
> 
> Please note that this is a full canon rewrite. All canon information and unchanged aspects will be included. I will also be attempting to make the story as relatable and floating timeline as possible.
> 
> The final pairing for each girl will be Tom Riddle, different from Voldemort, partly because one of the only things all four girls will have in common is a connection to the same person - but in his younger human self, before some of the corruption and most of the crimes, I think the interest and potential changes would be far more pronounced.

_Darcey One_

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose over their front garden, which formed a perfect, neat square lined with two layers: one of grey stone, the other of dark green hedge. The sun spread across their flat space of neatly mown lawn, over their shiny midnight blue car and Aunt Petunia's perfect rows of almost eerily precision-perfect flower-beds. The beds were filled with conventional flowers, tulips and lilies mainly.

Next the sun spread across their front steps, across their mahogany front door with the gleaming bronze number four. It crept through lacy white curtains, through a large window into their living room, which had the clean white carpet that spoke of frequent vacuuming and no animals, a falsely pleasant lavender scent from an air freshener in the corner, smooth white walls and ceiling, and two cream-colored armchairs set next to a long mint green sofa, all set in front of a television in the far corner of the room. A tiny end table with an ugly patterned vase from the shopping network sat in another corner of the room. Their fireplace was, as always, red brick with a brown wood mantel piece.

Everything almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the mantel piece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different colored bonnets. But Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a video game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.

The room also held certain signs of a small, dark-haired girl. For one thing, she was in a formal family dinner party portrait on one wall. They looked so perfect and doll-like, dressed nicely in the photograph. Look, there was the father and the mother, and there was the little boy and the little girl.

The small, dark-haired girl was also in other photographs. She could be seen riding bicycles or playing video games with Dudley, for example. If one looked carefully enough, one could see she was only in the photographs with Dudley; Mr and Mrs Dursley either stood stiffly off to the side or weren't in these photographs at all, and Dudley was the only one smiling at the girl or including her.

But no one ever bothered to look carefully enough.

The girl was Darcey Potter, the Dursleys' niece, and she was asleep at the moment but not for long. Her Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made the first noise of the day.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Darcey woke with a start. Her aunt rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched.

"I'm up," Darcey grumbled quietly, "I'm up," sitting upright in her bed and running a hand through her messy black hair. She was scowling and felt rather like yelling or throwing something at the cupboard door, but decided this would not exactly be a bright idea and so held herself in. Darcey heard her aunt walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. She stared, blinking blearily, at the far wall and tried to remember the dream she had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. She had a funny feeling she'd had the same dream before.

Her aunt was back outside the door. "Get a move on," she said, "I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Darcey muttered sarcastically.

"What was that?" her aunt snapped through the door.

"I said I wouldn't dream of ruining Dudley's precious birthday breakfast!" said Darcey fiercely, and perhaps bitterly, through the door.

"Well, since that's your attitude, perhaps you can finish the whole meal!" Aunt Petunia snarled, and Darcey heard her heels clacking away up the stairs.

Darcey got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. She found a pair under her bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Darcey was used to spiders because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where she slept. She had been banished here as an infant by her aunt and uncle immediately upon arriving in their house as an orphan.

Similarly, they had never given her any gifts or clothes of significance either. Every hobby and school friend she had, everything she owned, was on the kindness of her cousin Dudley. Dudley was… not perfect. He was horribly spoiled by his adoring parents, a rather massive boy with a big gang of guy friends who already at nearly eleven liked getting into fights with other boys in his school. But he considered Darcey his quiet but passionate, pint-sized firebrand of a sister, and he was a good brother. Since they were in the same class, he kept her from being picked on in school and allowed her to have friends and hobbies. He used his own money, given by his parents, to buy things for her. Sometimes he could even swing it so that she was allowed on holidays with her friends, or on fun outings with the family, though that hadn't been the case today for his eleventh birthday. Today would probably be boring, lonely and miserable, three of Darcey's least favorite things.

Darcey was only allowed these things because Dudley asked for them, even threw temper tantrums over them, and her aunt and uncle couldn't bear their Duddy being upset, so they gave him whatever he wanted. In their most natural state and in most other matters, they were terribly strict, chore-heavy, and they repressed her as much as possible.

The cupboard was really a small closet, a rectangular space with a bare light bulb and a ceiling that slanted downward in the direction of the kitchen. It had plain white walls with wood lining, and yes, sometimes spiders.

But she had decorated it. Rock band posters covered the walls, from all of her favorite rock bands based on the music Dudley had bought for her. Funko Pop figurines of all of her favorite comic book and gaming characters lined the shelves - Darcey's absolute favorite hobbies were comics and gaming, both video games and more traditional tabletop gaming, both hobbies supplied by Dudley. Souvenirs from holiday locations with friends like a jar of sand or a series of beautiful pebbles sat on high shelves. Clothes were scattered messily across the cupboard floor.

She got dressed there in the cupboard. Darcey had naturally thick and wild shiny black hair, almond shaped bright green eyes, a thin friendly face, a tiny pixie-like body, dimpled knees, and glasses. She also had a thin scar on her forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. It did make her rather self conscious, and the first question she could ever remember asking her Aunt Petunia was how she had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said, "and don't ask questions."

 _Don't ask questions_ \- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys.

But Dudley and sometimes Darcey's school friends did buy Darcey clothes, even letting her pick out what she liked. Some of her typical points of fashion consisted of things like sunglasses, T-shirts with fading designs, sandals that left unwelcome tan lines, socks with cats on them, flannels and sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and designs full of bright colors, big pictures, and words.

She only ever wore her hair one of two ways. Either she put it up in a high, sleek ponytail, or she used her curling iron to give herself a long mane of big, wild loose black curls. Her glasses, both the sunglasses pair and the regular pair, were in a semi-rimless design and shape.

So, for example, one outfit could be flannel with sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a long mane of big, wild loose black curls. Another outfit could be a T-shirt with a big, colorful fading word design, short jean shorts, sandals and cat socks, a ponytail, and her sunglasses pair of glasses hanging from her neckline while her regular pair was on her face.

When Darcey was ready for the day, she went down the stairs and down the hall, into the kitchen. It was one long space, dining room fading into kitchen area, and it was all gleaming white with marble tiling and bold black accents. The kitchen table was plainer, simple manufactured wood. Today it was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Darcey was turning over the bacon. He couldn't find anything particularly wrong with her, so he harrumphed, heaved himself into his seat in the kitchen table, opened up his morning newspaper, and ignored her.

Uncle Vernon was one long, straight line with a pregnancy-like bulge in the middle. All of the weight gained had gone directly to his waistline. He wore black suits with expensive, boring grey ties even on weekends, and had a pouchy, stern purple face with a constantly ruffled and disapproving-looking black mustache and receding hairline.

Aunt Petunia was his polar opposite - a thin and bony woman with a snobbish look curling her sharp nose and thinned lips, she had a neat chignon of blonde hair, sharp beady blue eyes, and wore very ugly flowery dresses, perfume, and clacking heels.

Traditionalism was important to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. They lived in a climbing upper-class gated suburb. Uncle Vernon directed a corporation and had a steady nine-to-five and followed the news while Aunt Petunia was a cook, tea-brewer, baker, and stay-at-home wife and mother.

Darcey was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley had a round pink face and a rather chubby look about him, but he was also tall, massive, and broad-shouldered. He was a mean puncher, enjoying boxing and wrestling just as much as his video games, and no one at school dared make fun of him. He had small blue eyes, smooth blond hair, and he didn't care much for fashion himself so he usually wore the big and rather ugly sweaters his mother had bought for him. She adoringly said constantly that her Duddy looked like a baby angel.

Darcey put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face. Darcey, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, quickly pulled her plate into her lap in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another _two_ presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Darcey knew the answer, but she wasn't going to risk a tantrum being directed at her by telling Dudley that. She knew how to handle her surrogate brother.

Finally Dudley said slowly, "So I'll have thirty… thirty…"

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

"Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Darcey and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new video games that he would definitely be trying out with Darcey later, and a movie player. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs Figg's broken her leg. She can't take her." She jerked her head in Darcey's direction.

Dudley brightened, pleased, and he and Darcey shared a glance as Darcey's heart gave a leap of hope. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Unless Dudley could swing letting Darcey come along, every year Darcey was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Darcey hated it there, and had to tamper down on her bad temper during visits and subsist to scowls and grumbles as best she could. The whole house smelled of cabbage and was covered in knitted afghans, and Mrs Figg made her look at photographs of all the cats she'd ever owned, there on the stained sofa in her dark, dusty, cluttered home. As Darcey had said: boring, lonely and miserable.

Usually she hated Dudley's birthdays.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Darcey as though she'd planned this.

"It's not like I broke her leg!" said Darcey heatedly, standing and glaring right back.

"I wouldn't put it past you, and sit down," Aunt Petunia snapped. Darcey sat slowly and mutinously.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl."

The Dursleys often spoke about Darcey like this, as though she wasn't there - or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug. Deadpan, Darcey put her chin in her hand and gave the far wall a bored, disgusted look as her day was planned over her head.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend - Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia.

"You could just leave me here," Darcey monotoned, still glaring at the far wall. It was nice staying at home. She could play all the single-player games she wanted, from video games to solitaire, and she could read her comics out in the open while blasting rock music. "Or I could go to a friends' house."

Aunt Petunia looked as though she'd just swallowed a lemon. "And come back and find the house in ruins?" she snarled. "Or, worse yet, inflict you for an entire day with no warning on some other poor unsuspecting family?"

"I won't blow up the house," said Darcey disbelievingly, finally lifting her chin from her palm, "and it's not like I'll attack anybody." But they weren't listening.

"I suppose we could take her to the zoo," said Aunt Petunia slowly, "and leave her in the car…"

"That car's new, she's not sitting in it alone…"

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying - it had been years since he'd really cried - but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted. "Mummy, I want… her… to… come," Dudley yelled between huge, pretend sobs.

Darcey perked up cautiously. It might not be the most morally arrow-straight way to go about things, but you couldn't argue with results. Watching Dudley con one over on his parents was actually always rather funny. It was touching, too, though she'd never admit it, that he stuck up for her in his own weird way.

"Oh, my sweet, sensitive, good-hearted little boy!" Aunt Petunia cried, flinging her arms around him. Dudley shot Darcey a secretive, mischievous grin through the gap in his mother's arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang - "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically - and a moment later, Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a tiny, thin, dark boy, usually the one who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them and much cleverer than Dudley himself. This made him sound rather malicious - he wasn't actually. He had quite a cheerful sense of humor and outside of fights was the opposite of underhanded, could be positively friendly. Dudley just purposefully went for people who fought dirty. Seeing a fellow guy enter the room, Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Darcey was sitting in the back of the Dursleys' shiny midnight-blue car with Piers and Dudley, chattering with her cousin and his friend in quite a friendly way, with sparks of good-natured teasing in her expression. She was officially on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Her aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with her, and anyway Dudley had asked.

But before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Darcey aside into the living room.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Darcey's as she tilted her chin backward and glared cautiously, "I'm warning you now, girl - any funny business, anything at all - and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"I'm not going to do anything," said Darcey in a hard voice, looking at the ceiling.

But Uncle Vernon didn't believe her. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Darcey, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Darcey coming back from the barber's looking as though she hadn't been at all, equally tired of hearing Uncle Vernon complain about it, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut Darcey's hair so short she was almost bald except for her bangs, which her aunt left "to hide that horrible scar." Dudley had teased Darcey mercilessly, and in spite of his promises to keep her from being bullied she had spent a sleepless night imagining being laughed at in school the next day. Next morning, however, she had gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she _couldn't_ explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, back before Dudley and her friends started purchasing her clothes, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force Darcey into a very ugly, faded old grey secondhand dress. The harder she tried to pull it over Darcey's head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet but certainly wouldn't fit Darcey. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to her great relief, Darcey wasn't punished.

On the other hand, she'd gotten into terrible trouble for that incident with the bully at school two years ago. A big older bully had cornered Darcey on the playground, laughing and jeering at her, and even as Dudley went to sprint over the boy had _pushed_ her - and suddenly a gigantic, invisible force had shoved into him and pushed him completely off the wood chips, out of arm's reach. A very angry letter had been sent home from Darcey's headmistress. Darcey hadn't been able to explain this incident, either, but all she had been able to do was shout helplessly at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of her cupboard.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. She was spending the day somewhere fun with Dudley and one of his friends, and in the same way it was when she was doing her own hobbies or with her own friends, right now life was perfect.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things. People at work, Darcey, the council, Darcey, the bank, and Darcey were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

Darcey had overheard from her place in the dark leather back seat chatting with Dudley and Piers. She decided to take a risk and have a bit of fun, remembering her dream from this morning.

"Uncle Vernon," she asked, mock innocent, "can motorcycles fly?"

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right around in his seat and yelled at Darcey, his face like a gigantic beet with a mustache, "NO! NO, MOTORCYCLES ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO FLY!"

"Oh," said Darcey, her eyes wide and curious. "Okay."

Dudley and Piers were snickering appreciatively.

If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than Darcey asking questions, it was Darcey talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon. They seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas. They barely allowed her comics and video games, and only then because Dudley was also allowed them and he had asked for her to be able to join in with him.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families; crowds swarmed toward the big gate entrance decorated with vast animal statues. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance and then, because Dudley was about to break out his own money and Uncle Vernon found the ice cream lady's expression deeply embarrassing, they reluctantly bought Darcey a small lemon sherbet twist ice cream.

Darcey had a very good morning. She, Dudley, and Piers had fun traversing the countless twisting clay-like roads and little bridges, looking out over the different animal enclosures with interest. Darcey drank in each kind of animal happily. Dudley and Piers were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, though Darcey could have easily gone with another few hours. They ate in the zoo restaurant, which was full of fake plastic trees with swinging monkeys and jungle sounds from hidden speakers, and besides Dudley having a tantrum because his Knickerbocker Glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, that went fine as well.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. The enclosure arced around in a C, lots of cool dark brickwork with lit glass reptile enclosures inlaid among the brick. Behind the artificially golden glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons, to Darcey's good-natured exasperation. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can, but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Darcey moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself - no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up. At least she had plenty of other places to visit.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Darcey's.

_It winked._

Darcey stared. Then she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. She looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Darcey a look that said quite plainly:

_"I get that all the time."_

"I know," Darcey murmured through the glass, though she wasn't sure the snake could hear her. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Darcey asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Darcey peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail again and Darcey read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see - so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Darcey made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he told Darcey quite rudely, and knowing better than to mess with that look, Darcey stepped neatly out of the way. Piers and Dudley leaned right up close to the glass, oohing and aahing.

Darcey watched with sympathy as slowly, hissing irritably at them, the Brazilian boa constrictor sank down into its former torpor.

Darcey thought she was in the clear. But then the whole family piled back in Uncle Vernon's car at the end of the day in the zoo parking lot, chattering excitedly. And Piers calmed down enough to say, "Darcey was talking to it, weren't you, Darcey?"

Darcey tried to laugh it off as she felt tension fill the car. "Oh, yes, Piers," she said in a falsely sarcastic, cheerful voice, "I was _talking_ to the boa constrictor."

But Uncle Vernon, for one, was not fooled.

He waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting in on Darcey. But Dudley stepped quickly into their path. "She was helping me!" he said forcefully, his face reddening. "She was talking to the snake, hoping it would move for me!"

"... Fine. Tonight and tomorrow in the cupboard. She's let out the morning after. No meals until then," Uncle Vernon growled out.

"But Dad -" Dudley began desperately.

"It was going to be two weeks with only one meal a day!" Uncle Vernon thundered in the darkened sophisticated living room, and his eyes flashed in Darcey's direction. _"Go!"_

Then he collapsed into an armchair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

-

Darcey lay in her dark cupboard much later, periodically checking her watch. She'd specifically requested it from Dudley for times like these. The watch was practical. She kept an eye on the time and waited for a moment she was sure that the Dursleys would be asleep. Then she snuck into the kitchen and stole food.

This was not a sign of Darcey's overt personality, not a manifestation of her true nature. For Darcey, this was pure survival. She kept plastic bags of food hidden underneath her bed after stealing nights during cupboard punishments.

She kept a bucket in the corner in case she had to pee outside of her two allotted times a day outside the cupboard. She always made sure the light bulb was working, so that she could read comics or listen to rock music on headphones during long afternoons. She kept a can of bug spray in her cupboard for really nasty spiders. The worst times were when they got in her hair at night.

Basic survival.

She'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she'd been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn't remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the car crash, though she couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn't remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Darcey had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, had wandered countless streets just trying to escape her home, but none of it had ever happened and nothing had ever worked; the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Darcey furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop withouting buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on a bus. A bald man in a very long, purple coat had actually bowed over her hand and kissed it in the street the other day, like she was a princess, and then walked away without a word.

The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Darcey tried to get a closer look.


	2. Darcey Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, but for this chapter and the next, it was hard to credibly establish really clear differences between girls or from canon. I tried to make differences where I felt I rationally could. The first part of the chapter is more obviously different than the second part. Otherwise, for now just enjoy, and if it's any consolation once we hit the Diagon Alley chapter, differences start to get much bigger. By the time you hit the Hogwarts Express you will almost be reading four totally separate stories. They will never truly become the same again afterward.
> 
> For now, just enjoy the story and the subtle differences. That's what these first three chapters are all about.

_Darcey Two_

School ended and the summer holidays began. Darcey spent as much of her time as possible outside the house with friends. Meanwhile, Dudley celebrated the beginning of summer in his own way. By the end of the second week, he had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote controlled aeroplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Dudley’s gang took over the Dursley house, visiting it every single day, so she saw them a lot. They were all friendly to her, as Dudley’s sister, but like Dudley most were rather big, dull fighters - Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon.

When September came, Darcey would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Darcey, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school.

“I’m worried about you. I won’t be there and it’s supposed to be a pretty rough place,” said Dudley, his eyes narrowed, sizing her up as if seeing if she could handle her new school as they stood on the staircase talking one afternoon.

Darcey smiled in exasperated amusement. “Don’t worry, Dudley, I’ll be fine,” she said warmly, half laughing, but Dudley didn’t look convinced.

Darcey was, after all, just a little girl.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy school uniforms, leaving Darcey at Mrs Figg’s. Mrs Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her countless cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Darcey watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Aunt Petunia handed Darcey some plain grey skirt and jacket uniforms. “Your new school uniforms,” she said brusquely, placing the neatly folded pile in Darcey’s arms in the front hall near the cupboard. “Put them away and come out to the living room.”

Dudley was assigned to parade around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Darcey didn’t trust herself to speak. She was having enough trouble suppressing horrified, pitying giggles as it was.

-

The next morning, everyone sat down to breakfast. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Darcey get it.”

“Get the mail, Darcey.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Darcey dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail, storming in a somewhat bad-tempered, scowling way to the door. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Darcey.

Darcey picked it up and looked it over curiously, her annoyance evaporated. She had gotten letters and postcards before, from school friends. But this letter seemed odd. First there was the address:

_Miss D. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp and no return address.

Turning the envelope over, Darcey saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,_ said tiny Latin letters in a ribbon around the animals.

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Darcey went back into the kitchen and handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard. “I got a letter,” she said curiously, “but it’s a little funny.”

“Let’s see it,” said Uncle Vernon, grabbing the letter from her hands and sounding bored. This was expected. Uncle Vernon always read Darcey’s mail before she did.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. “Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk. Well, all right, girl, let’s see your letter.”

Uncle Vernon ripped open the letter, took out some heavy parchment paper, shook that paper open with one hand and glanced at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

“What is it? What’s going on?” said Dudley eagerly. He tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness - Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Darcey and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“Not before I do!” said Darcey furiously. She’d been fuming for whole minutes and at last she openly lost her temper. “It’s my bloody letter!” she said. “If anyone gets to see it first, it should be _me!”_

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Darcey didn’t move. _“No,”_ she said in a hard, defiant voice, her eyes flashing.

“Let me see the letter!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Darcey and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the carpeted hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Dudley and Darcey looked at each other - and Dudley motioned Darcey to look in the kitchen door keyhole, closer to the staircase, perhaps feeling she deserved it more. Then he lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, her back to Darcey in a kitchen table chair, “look at the address - how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching - spying - might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. He was pacing up and down the kitchen, his face an even deeper shade of purple than usual, his temple working and his tiny dark eyes roving around madly as he thought hard.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want -”

Uncle Vernon paced silently.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… Yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything…”

“But -”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Especially not one of those nasty women! Didn’t we swear when we took her in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

-

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Darcey in her cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Darcey, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“A mistake!” said Darcey, outraged. Her eyes narrowed furiously. “You burned a letter that had my cupboard on it,” she growled out through gritted teeth.

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er - yes, Darcey - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Darcey, puzzled.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped her uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. Darcey moved everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. As she moved upstairs, Dudley was nice enough to move some of his things downstairs; he was clearing his old toys away for her and putting them in the basement, puffing with effort as he shoved them down the staircase. 

Nearly everything Darcey passed on her way up was broken. There was the month-old video camera. There was the small, working tank that Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog. There was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. There was the large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for an air rifle, which also came from the second bedroom with its end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Many, many books also came down the staircase and were consigned to the basement. They were the only things that looked as though they’d never been touched.

Meanwhile, everything Darcey owned was still in near perfect working order, and the books she owned were much more well worn. She thought it was because she had none of her own money and she wasn’t allowed much - so she’d learned to be careful, and to treasure what she had. Her rock band posters went on the walls, her rock music went into the room, as did her comics and the few personal video games and single video game player she owned, as did the few tabletop games she owned. Her Funko Pop character figurines, tiny and quirky, went on surrounding shelves. Her jar of sand and series of beautiful pebbles, full of rare happy childhood memories, were spread across one particular shelf. She put her clothes and things in the wardrobe with its inside door mirror, her flannels and fading colorful big letter T shirts, her scrunchies and jean shorts, cat socks and sandals, sunglasses and curling iron. There was also a large bed, a bedside table with a repaired alarm clock and a lamp for her glasses and her watch, and a desk beside the curtained upstairs window.

Darcey sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday she’d have given anything to be up here. Today she’d rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

-

Next morning at breakfast, everything was rather quiet. Dudley seemed unusually hesitant around the dark moods of the rest of his family. Darcey was thinking bitterly about this time yesterday. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Darcey, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Miss D. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -’”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall. Darcey stayed in her seat primly. She was curious to see the letter, not full of testosterone and stupid. She and Aunt Petunia sat there, exasperated and deadpan, as they heard Uncle Vernon and Dudley fighting and wrestling each other for the letter in the hall, accompanied by the frequent bangs of the Smelting stick.

At last, Uncle Vernon seemed to have won, because they heard his heaving gasps for breath, the fighting ceased, and then they heard him wheeze, “Dudley - go - just go.”

Darcey sat there in her seat, the cogs in her head turning behind her sharp eyes. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn’t received her first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time she’d make sure they didn’t fail. She had a plan.

-

That evening, Darcey asked to be excused from dinner early. “I’m not feeling well,” she said cautiously. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

Everyone ignored her, the kitchen still full of dark silence.

She crept from the table, out of the kitchen, across the hall - then she sprinted for the front door. She’d made sure before coming down to dinner that her bedroom light was off, the door closed, and a lump formed by a pillow underneath her pulled-up covers. She opened the front door as silently as she could, closed it quietly behind her, ducked underneath view of the living room windows, and crept off the Dursley property. 

She straightened in the cool night air, taking deep, nervous breaths, as she moved quickly down the street. She walked down Privet Drive, made it to the corner by the largest lamp-post - she sat in the large pool of light it provided against the pavement, at the edge of the sidewalk, and she waited.

She waited all night, forcing herself to be as patient as she could. This was important. This strange letter was the first one the Dursleys actively hadn’t wanted her to read, which ironically meant it was probably the one most important to read.

This wasn’t just curiosity. Darcey wanted to know what qualified her as a so-called nasty woman - what the Dursleys didn’t want her to know.

Finally, as grey pearly light hit the horizon, the mailman drove up to the corner of Privet Drive - and stopped curiously, seeing her. He hung out the window. “You lost?” he called.

“I need the letters for number four, please,” she said, standing.

“All right.” He seemed nonplussed, but willing enough, rifling through his bag. “Here you are.” He handed her the mail and drove on. She took the mail excitedly - and then sagged, disappointed.

There was no strange letter in this pile of mail.

She walked slowly back to the house at number four, hoping she could just sneak in unnoticed -

But she opened the front door and Uncle Vernon was lying there, at the foot of the door in a sleeping bag. He had clearly been trying to prevent Darcey from doing exactly what she did. And in his lap were three letters addressed in emerald green ink.

How were those letters getting here… if they didn’t come by post?

Uncle Vernon’s face purpled as he saw her. “Thought you’d outsmarted me, had you?” he said furiously. He ripped the letters into pieces before her eyes, shouted at her for about half an hour once he’d shut the door, grabbed the mail from her hands, and then told her to go and make him a cup of tea.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. 

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver then they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

-

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Darcey. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in one of the bathrooms. 

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the front and back doors so no one could get out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked and jumped at small noises.

-

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Darcey found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy, trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

-

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today -”

Something came whizzing down the red brick kitchen chimney near the table as he spoke and caught him sharply in the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Darcey leapt into the air trying to catch one -

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Darcey around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, movie player, and computer into his sports bag.

Darcey reached out and gave Dudley’s hand a gentle squeeze, still staring straight ahead. He looked over at her and his sniffles quieted a little.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off… shake ‘em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling, and try as she might, not even Darcey could comfort him. Dudley had never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on one of his video games.

Darcey was used to all three of those things, most particularly having suffered cupboard punishments but in general never being treated as well, so she wasn’t sure what to say.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. The city seemed at least at nighttime to be a dark, crummy place full of crowded corner streets and tiny boarded-up buildings. The hotel was a tall, forbidding tower with an eerie neon sign above its bottom floor that had one of the letters out. Dudley and Darcey shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets, a small, square sort of place with plain bedcovers that barely qualified as clean. Dudley snored, exhausted after his trying day, but Darcey stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the red lights of passing cars turning at the corner intersection far below, wondering about the letters and whoever was sending them…

-

They ate stale cornflakes and cold, tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next morning. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“Excuse me, but it was one of you Miss D. Potter? Only I got about a hundred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

_Miss D. Potter_

_Room 17_

_Railview Hotel_

_Cokeworth_

Darcey made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked her hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the carpeted dining room full of little tables with white tablecloths, low chatter and clinking silverware.

-

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest full of thick, dark green trees. He got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed golden field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the flat, paved open top of a multi-level parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, along a flat stretch of wet stone and gravel right near a cliff leading down to the sea, had locked them all inside the car, and had disappeared into the soft curtain of grey rain moving toward them.

The rain reached them. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a _television.”_

Monday. This reminded Darcey of something. If it was Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, July 31st, would be Darcey’s eleventh birthday. Of course, she was with the Dursleys, who never usually celebrated her birthdays - that was more of her friends’ thing - last year on her birthday, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and an ugly old blouse of Aunt Petunia’s that she’d been about to give away to charity. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back, dripping wet, and he was smiling eerily. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing over the cliff, across the iron-grey, foaming white, choppy waves, toward what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was a tiny, sagging shack. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, down some steps leading down the side of the cliff to an old rowboat bobbing in the water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; the floor was made of dirt, the whole place smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, there was only a single sofa, and the fireplace it was in front of was damp and dark and empty. There were only two rooms, the other being a small bedroom with one bed.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Darcey privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer her up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the tiny, thick, filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the ugly, moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Darcey was left to find the softest bit of floor she could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Darcey couldn’t sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which dangled over the edge of the sofa on his thick wrist, told Darcey she’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter-writer was now.

Four minutes to go. Darcey heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine - maybe she’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him - three… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Darcey sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


	3. Darcey Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the chapter that was hardest to write credible differences for. But I can't rewrite the whole series and not include this incredibly important chapter. Consider this one final chapter of mostly the same for each girl before the differences from each other and from canon start coming fast.
> 
> There is at least one important difference from canon in this chapter that will start to echo out in repercussions later for each girl, though. Let me know if you spot it.

_Darcey Three_

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. 

“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands. Now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he’d brought with them.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you - I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He wore boots and a black leather jacket.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you?” he said casually in a thick West Country accent. “It’s not been an easy journey.”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

“Budge up, you great lump,” said the stranger.

But Dudley slowly moved off the sofa - and in front of Darcey. Darcey paused in surprise. “What… what do you want with her?” he asked in a trembling voice, shielding Darcey but clearly terrified. “Are you going to hurt her?”

The giant’s expression seemed to soften underneath all the hair. “No,” he said. “I guess I didn’t give you enough credit. I don’t mean her no harm.”

“Duddy!” Aunt Petunia was hissing. “Come over here!”

Dudley looked backward at Darcey - who swallowed and nodded. “It’s okay, Dudley,” she said quietly. “You can go.”

And as he walked to his parents, some gap opened up between them that was more than physical and Darcey was left sitting alone in front of the sofa. Dudley hid behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“Well, and here’s Darcey!” said the giant.

Darcey looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Last time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “You look a lot like your Dad, definitely a Potter, but you’ve got your Mum’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, you great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway - Darcey,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to you. Got something for you here - I might’ve sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Darcey opened it slowly. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with the words Happy Birthday Darcey written on it in green icing.

Darcey looked up at the giant. She meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to her mouth, and what she said instead was, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Darcey’s whole arm.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no to something stronger if you’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled crips bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Darcey felt the warmth wash over her as though she’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausages. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant snorted again, but said nothing. He passed the sausages to Darcey, who was so hungry she had never tasted anything so wonderful, but she still couldn’t take her eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, she said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts - you’ll know all about Hogwarts, of course.”

“Er - no,” said Darcey.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Darcey said quickly.

 _“Sorry?”_ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew you weren’t getting your letters but I never thought you wouldn’t even know about Hogwarts, for crying out loud! Did you never wonder where your parents learned it all?”

“All what?” said Darcey.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait just one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you meant to tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this girl - this girl! - knows nothing about - about ANYTHING?”

Darcey thought this was going a bit far. She had been to school, after all, and her marks weren’t bad.

“I know _some_ things,” she said. “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About _our_ world, I mean. _Your_ world. _My_ world. _Your parents’ world.”_

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like, “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Darcey.

“But you must know about your mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re _famous._ You’re _famous.”_

“What? My - my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”

“You don’t know… you don’t know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Darcey with a bewildered stare.

“You don’t know what you _are?”_ he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.

“You never told her? Never told her what was in the letter Dumbledore left for her? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! And you’ve kept it from her all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” said Darcey eagerly.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, go boil your heads, both of you,” said Hagrid. “Darcey - you’re a witch.”

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m a _what?”_ gasped Darcey.

“A witch, of course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “and a thumping good one, I’d say, once you’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be? And I reckon it’s about time you read your letter.”

Darcey stretched out her hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Miss D. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. She pulled out the letter and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Darcey’s head like fireworks and she couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes, she stammered, “What does it mean, they await my owl?”

“Galloping Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a carthorse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Darcey could read upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Darcey her letter._

_Taking her to buy her things tomorrow._

_Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Darcey realized her mouth was open and closed it quickly.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

“She’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like to see a great Muggle like you stop her,” he said.

“A what?” said Darcey, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk like them. And it’s your back luck you grew up in a family of the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took her in we’d put a stop to all that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of her! Witch indeed!”

“You _knew?”_ said Darcey. “You _knew_ I’m a - a witch?”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. _“Knew!_ Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that - that _school_ \- and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frogspawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - _abnormal_ \- and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!

“Because you’re just like her! I always knew it and this proves it! You’re just as much of a _freak_ as my sister was! Witches are Satanic, against the laws of nature! You know, I suppose, what they used to do to women they suspected were _witches,”_ she finished vindictively.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Vernon in a hard voice. “Witches are unnatural women! They refuse to see their place in the world -!”

“Then I am a witch!” Darcey shouted defiantly, and the Dursleys paused in surprise. Darcey’s face twisted, her hands in fists, and as she heard this extra prejudice against females with magic, she there and then made herself a promise. “And I am going to be the best damn witch I can be - the best the world’s ever seen! I’ll work as hard as I have to, train as much as I need! I’m going to be a witch, what you called a nasty woman, and I’m going to be a powerful one!

“Oh… and blown up? You told me my parents died in a _car crash.”_ Darcey’s eyes narrowed.

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Darcey Potter not knowing her own story when every kid in our world knows her name, knows her as the Girl Who Lived!”

“But why? What happened?” Darcey asked urgently.

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting hold of you, how much you didn’t know. Ah, Darcey, I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you - but someone’s got to - you can’t go off to Hogwarts not knowing.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best you know as much as I can tell you - mind, I can’t tell you everything, it’s a great mystery, parts of it…”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it’s incredible you don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows -”

“Who?”

“Well - I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulping gargoyles, Darcey, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Darcey suggested.

“Nah - can’t spell it. All right - _Voldemort.”_ Hagrid shuddered. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started looking for followers. Got them, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit of his power, because he was getting himself power, all right. Dark days, Darcey. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was taking over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - and he killed them. Horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. Didn’t dare try taking the school, not just then, anyway.

“Now, your mum and dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew. Head boy and girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on his side before… probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anything to do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade them… maybe he just wanted them out of the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came to your house and - and -”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad - knew your mum and dad, and nicer people you couldn’t find - anyway…

“You-Know-Who killed them. And then - and this is the real mystery of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted to make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killing by then. But he couldn’t do it. That’s why you’re the Girl Who Lived. Never wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you - took care of your mum and dad and your house, even - but it didn’t work on you, and that’s why you’re famous, Darcey. No one lived after he decided to kill them, no one except you, and he’d killed some of the best wizards and witches of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - and you was only a baby, and you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Darcey’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, she saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before - and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching her sadly.

“Took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought you to this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Darcey jumped; she had almost forgotten the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, girl,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end -” 

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warning you, Dursley - I’m warning you - one more word…”

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Darcey, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry - I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question, Darcey. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous. That’s the biggest mystery, see… he was getting more and more powerful - why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, biding his time, like, but I don’t believe it. People who was on his side came back to ours. Some of them came out of kind of trances. Don’t reckon they could’ve done if he was coming back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause something about you finished him, Darcey. There was something going on that night that he hadn’t counted on - _I_ don’t know what it was, no one does - but something about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Darcey with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Darcey, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A witch? Her? How could she possibly be? She’d spent her life being protected by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if she was really a witch, why hadn’t her aunt and uncle been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock her in her cupboard? If she’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had had to shield her from every common schoolyard Muggle bully?

“Hagrid,” she said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a witch.”

To her surprise, Hagrid chuckled. 

“Not a witch, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?”

Darcey looked into the fire. Now she came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made her aunt and uncle furious with her had happened when she, Darcey, had been upset or angry… picked on by that bully, he had somehow been shoved out of arm’s reach… dreading going back to school with that ridiculous haircut, she’d managed to grow it back… hating that horrible secondhand dress, it had shrunk till it no longer fit her… feeling sorry for that snake, it had suddenly seemed attracted to her and she’d begun talking to it.

Darcey looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at her.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Darcey Potter, not a witch - you wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon was going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you she’s not going?” he hissed. “She’s going to Stonewall High and she’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and she needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -”

“If she wants to go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop her,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily and James Potter’s daughter going to Hogwarts! You’re mad. Her name’s been down ever since she was born. She’s off to the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and she won’t know herself. She’ll be with youngsters of her own sort, for a change, and she’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled -”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head, “NEVER -” he thundered, “- INSULT - ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE - IN - FRONT - OF - ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Uncle Vernon - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and next second, Uncle Vernon was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Darcey saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Aunt Petunia screamed. Pulling Uncle Vernon and Dudley into the other room, she cast one terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’t’ve lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work anyway. Meant to turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left to do.”

He cast a sideways look at Darcey under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if you didn’t mention that to anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m - er - not supposed to do magic, strictly speaking. I was allowed to do a bit to follow you and get your letters to you and stuff - one of the reasons I was so keen to take on the job -”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Darcey.

“Oh, well - I was at Hogwarts meself but I - er - got expelled, to tell you the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half and everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s getting late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up to town, get all your books and that.”

He took off his thick black coat and threw it at Darcey.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’t mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple of dormice in one of the pockets.”


	4. Darcey Four

_Darcey Four_

Darcey woke early the next morning. Although she could tell it was daylight, she kept her eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” she told herself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for witches. When I open my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

“And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door,” Darcey thought, her heart sinking. But she still didn’t open her eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Darcey mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

She sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off her. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Darcey scrambled to her feet, so happy she felt as though a large balloon were swelling inside her. She went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Darcey tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at her and carried on savaging the coat. 

“Hagrid!” said Darcey loudly. “There’s an owl -”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants paying for delivering the paper. Look in the pockets.”

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets - bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Darcey pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Darcey counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Darcey could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Darcey, lots to do today, gotta get up to London and buy all your stuff for school.”

Darcey was turning over the witch coins and looking at them. She had just thought of something that made her feel as though the happy balloon inside her had got a puncture.

“Um - Hagrid?”

“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

“I haven’t got any money - and I don’t think Uncle Vernon would let even Dudley pay for my schooling. You heard Uncle Vernon last night… he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic. Not in any way.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. “Do you think your parents didn’t leave you anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed -”

“They didn’t keep their gold in the house, girl! Nah, first stop for us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold - and I wouldn’t say no to a bit of your birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards and witches have banks?”

“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

Darcey dropped the bit of sausage she was holding.

“Goblins?”

“Yeah - so you’d be mad to try and rob it, I’ll tell you that. Never mess with goblins, Darcey. Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe - except maybe Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. For Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me to do important stuff for him. Fetching you - getting things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everything? Come on, then.”

Darcey followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How did you get here?” Darcey asked, looking around for another boat.

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“Flew?!”

“Yeah - but we’ll go back in this. Not supposed to do magic now I’ve got you.”

They settled down in the boat, Darcey still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame to row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Darcey another of his sideways looks. “If I was to - er - speed things up a bit, would you mind not mentioning it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Darcey, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” Darcey asked.

“Spells - enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons guarding the high security vaults. And then you’ve got to find your way around - Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. You’d die of hunger trying to get out, even if you did manage to get your hands on something.”

Darcey sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Darcey had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, she’d never had so many questions in her life.

“Ministry of Magic messing things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Darcey asked, before she could stop herself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore for Minister, of course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still witches and wizards up and down the country.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Blimey, Darcey, everyone would be wanting magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Darcey? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

It was hilarious and Darcey encouraged him as much as she could, purposefully responding in equally as loud and absurd a tone of voice. “I know! Isn’t it ridiculous?” she would yell back, and people would stare even further. It was extremely funny.

“Hagrid,” said Darcey at last, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d… like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid - here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money” as he called it, gave the bills to Darcey so she could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. Darcey sat and watched Hagrid with a warm smile, her eyes dancing in sparking amusement. Watching Hagrid amid Muggles was fantastic and she would have to try to make sure it happened more often.

“Still got your letter, Darcey?” he asked as he counted stitches.

Darcey took the parchment envelope out of her pocket.

“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list in there of everything you need.”

Darcey unfolded a second piece of paper she hadn’t noticed the night before, and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require:_

_Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

_Course Books_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_

_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal vials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

“Can we buy all this in London?” Darcey wondered aloud.

“If you know where to go,” said Hagrid.

-

Darcey had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. Darcey watched fondly as he got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said to Darcey’s private little amused smile, as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Darcey had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of witch’s gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke the Dursleys had cooked up? If Darcey hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, she might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told her so far was unbelievable, Darcey couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, old-fashioned pub with a dark wood front and a painted oval sign hung out on a rod, wood plank flapping slightly in the breeze. The Leaky Cauldron seemed somewhat grubby; even the sign seemed coated in very old soot.

If Hagrid hadn’t pointed the Leaky Cauldron out, Darcey wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other, and they strolled farther down Charing Cross Road as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Darcey had the most peculiar feeling that only she and Hagrid could see it. Before she could mention this, Hagrid had steered her inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. It had lots of little dark wood tables, a long bar with gleaming metal instruments behind it, a fireplace off to the right side, and a staircase off to the left side that must lead up to the rooms. Even the flower-printed wallpaper seemed again old and sooty. A few old women were sitting in a corner drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut.

“They’re all wearing ordinary clothes,” Darcey murmured, frowning. “But with some very old-fashioned additions.”

“Yeah, well,” said Hagrid, “we do wear Muggle clothes, mostly. Robes are mostly traditional things, for special or official occasions, they don’t really have a fashion. Only eccentrics always wear robes. And we tend to live longer than Muggles, so you’ll see a lot of people walking around dressed up in some very old fashioned Muggle garments - the kind they wore when they were young. When we’re out among Muggles and we want to spot each other, though, we always try to wear purple and green. Those are our colors.”

The low buzz of chatter in the Leaky Cauldron had stopped by this point. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Darcey’s shoulder and marking Darcey’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Darcey, “is this - can this be -?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Darcey Potter… what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Darcey and seized her hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back.”

Darcey didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Darcey found herself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. Two particularly old-fashioned men bowed over her hand again, the second time that had happened in her life.

“Doris Crockford, Miss Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Miss Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand - I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Miss Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Darcey, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“She remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? She remembers me!”

Darcey shook and offered her hand again and again - Doris Crockford kept coming back for more; those same two men wouldn’t stop bowing.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Darcey, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Darcey’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously.

“Oh, I’m sure you have so much to teach me,” said Darcey eagerly, remembering her promise to become a great witch from the night before. “Professor, I’m particularly interested, what can a witch do after she leaves school? I aim to become someone special, you see.”

“S-some would s-s-say you already a-are,” said Professor Quirrell, smiling anxiously and seeming surprised.

“But I want to actually do something. Not just have something happen to me,” said Darcey firmly. “Not necessarily something great… just something that proves I’m a worthwhile witch.”

“You don’t have to prove that to anyone, Darcey,” said Hagrid.

“Except to myself,” said Darcey. “So, Professor.” She turned back to him, eagle-eyed. “Is there anything in particular I should study? What are my career options?” She lifted her head. She wanted to know what a witch could do after she left school.

“W-well…” said Professor Quirrell thoughtfully, apparently interested to be asked a scholarly question. “Th-there are really f-four ways to go. There are the w-working class jobs - sh-shop clerk, caretaker. There are the jobs that are e-everywhere - p-professor, journalist, lawyer, g-government worker, Au-Aurors are a bit like policemen, and then Potioneers for Apothecaries are rather like ph-pharmacists in the Muggle world, while Healers are rather like d-doctors. No b-banking; th-that’s goblin purview. There are jobs in any of the arts, though one would replace f-film with th-theater in our world, as we don’t have t-television or the Internet; we even have our kind of p-professional sports. Then there are specifically m-magical jobs - working with m-magical creatures or in magical experimentation and theory, working on the magic surrounding G-Gringotts vaults, alchemy, that sort of thing. There are even people who specifically s-study sentient magical creature languages, or M-Muggle culture. And there are people who magically reconfigure w-wizarding technology, electricity normally being incompatible with m-magic, to f-fit into our old-fashioned w-world.

“You have m-many options, Miss Potter. N-n-never forget that.”

“That sounds wonderful…” said Darcey softly, watching him intently. 

“Professor Quirrell knows, ‘cause he used to teach Muggle Studies,” said Hagrid proudly. “That’s a third-year elective. He changed subjects.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” said Darcey thoughtfully. “What made you go from one to the other?”

Nervous Professor Quirrell looked like he was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He was still pale; one of his eyes was still twitching. “Oh, j-just wanted a change.” He tried for a trembling, brave smile. “S-so, P-P-Potter, you’ll be g-g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

“I can’t wait to buy books. I’ll have to start out with lots of extras,” said Darcey, smiling. Hearing her countless career options had excited her, opened her eyes to all the things she could do with her life if she took her studies seriously enough. This world, with its modern clothes and its selective technology and its fantastical careers, was like the ordinary world on steroids. All those careers… how would she be able to choose just one?!

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Darcey to himself. It took almost ten more minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on - lots to buy. Come on, Darcey.”

Doris Crockford shook Darcey’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. 

Hagrid grinned at Darcey.

“Told you, didn’t I? Told you you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was trembling to meet you - mind you, he’s usually trembling.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studying out of books, but then he took a year off to get some firsthand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit of trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject - now, where’s me umbrella?”

Hagrid found it, took it out of his coat pocket, and began counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

“Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Darcey.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street full of colorful little shop buildings that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Darcey’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Darcey looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. The shop was called Potages.

“Yeah, you’ll be needing one,” said Hagrid, “but we’ve got to get your money first.”

Darcey wished she had about eight more eyes. She turned her head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Darcey’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Darcey heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever…” Meanwhile, several girls of about Darcey’s age were oohing and aahing outside the windows of a department store advertising itself as Gladrags Wizardwear. There were shops selling antique robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Darcey had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon… 

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white marble building with Grecian columns that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was - 

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Darcey. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Darcey noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, you’d be mad to try and rob it,” said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Darcey made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come to take some money out of Miss Darcey Potter’s safe.”

“You have her key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Darcey watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. 

“That seems to be in order.”

Darcey took the key and tucked it deep in her pocket.

“And I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all of the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Darcey followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Darcey asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More than my job’s worth to tell you that.”

Griphook held the door open for them. Darcey, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passageways. Darcey tried to remember left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn’t steering.

Darcey’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Darcey called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, “what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite.”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “And don’t ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

So Darcey asked Griphook. “Griphook - just what does my family’s money look like?” She thought this to be an important thing to know, if she was going to try and know everything that was important.

“Well.” Griphook paused thoughtfully. “You had an ancestor in the twelfth century who invented several commonly used medicinal potions. You get a cut of money every single time a Skele-Gro Potion or a Pepperup Potion is made, bought, and sold. That’s a limb regrowing potion and the cure for the common cold.”

Darcey’s eyes had widened.

“So you have quite a bit of money,” said Griphook casually. “The Potters are one of our oldest and wealthiest families. You have the trust fund you can access now, and then the main Potter family vault when you come of age at seventeen. The main vault continually refills the trust vault, and the medicinal potions continually refill the main vault. Do you see?”

Darcey did see.

“The family vault is cursed with an ever-growing spell. The minute a piece of gold is touched, it continues to magically multiply false gold until eventually the thief drowns in a pile of the money they themselves wanted. The trust vault is cursed with toxic fumes - they come out every time the vault is opened, and are only harmless to those with good intentions and those who belong. So a bit milder.

“You are worth several million Galleons a year. In Muggle terms that makes you a billionaire,” said Griphook, smirking.

A billionaire. Darcey was speechless, completely floored.

But that was nothing compared to what was about to come.

Darcey’s trust vault was number six hundred and eighty seven. Griphook unlocked the door with the tiny golden key, then gave it back to Darcey. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Darcey gasped, wordless. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Darcey’s - it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from her faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Darcey cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to her, buried deep under London.

“... Can this be transferred over into Muggle pounds, any of it?” she asked intently.

“As much as you wish, Miss Potter,” said Griphook with a slow, wicked smile.

“... I would like to do that when we get back to the hall,” she said, determination forming over her expression. She would finally be able to pay back Dudley.

Hagrid helped Darcey pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should be enough for a couple of terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for you.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Darcey leaned over to try to see what was at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled her back by the scruff of her neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Darcey asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Darcey was sure, and she leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least - but at first she thought it was empty. Then she noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Darcey longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back inside this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.

-

One wild cart ride and exchange of some of Darcey’s money at the counter later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Darcey didn’t know where to run first now that she had a bag full of witch’s gold. She knew she was holding more money than she’d had in her whole life - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

“Might as well get your uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Darcey, would you mind if I slipped off for a pick me up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Darcey entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Darcey started to speak. “Got the lot here. A young man your age being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Darcey on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Darcey.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Darcey felt a sharp spurt of distaste.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got your own broom or play Quidditch at all, being a girl,” the boy supposed slowly.

Whether Quidditch was a game or a sport, Darcey felt somehow offended.

“A girl can do anything a boy can do,” she snapped.

The boy sneered a little. “What’s your favorite team, then?”

 

“... You’re right, I don’t follow Quidditch,” Darcey muttered, flushing and looking away.

“As I thought,” said the boy smugly. “Typical girl, wanting to be involved in something in spirit that most girls don’t have any part of.”

Darcey was still wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and why broom flying was reserved for men. She was beginning to strongly dislike this boy.

“I play Quidditch,” the boy continued. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” said Darcey, feeling more stupid by the minute.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Darcey, wishing she could say something a bit more interesting.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Darcey and pointing at two large ice cream cones to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Darcey, brightening. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Darcey. She was liking this boy less and less every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“He’s brilliant and I don’t particularly like you insulting him!” Darcey snapped, finally flaring out and losing her legendary temper.

“Really?” The boy sneered again. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Darcey shortly. She didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Darcey could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Darcey, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped off the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the drawling boy.

Darcey was rather quiet as she ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought her (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Darcey lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Darcey cheered up a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, she said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Darcey, I keep forgetting how little you know - not knowing about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” sad Darcey. She told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in -”

“You’re not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who you were - he’s grown up knowing your name if his parents are wizarding folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw you. Anyway, what does he know about it, some of the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in them in a long line of Muggles - look at your mum! Look what she had for a sister!”

“I just feel like I’ve been wanting so badly to fit in here, to be a great witch who studies really hard, but what if it’s impossible? What if I just don’t fit in?” said Darcey, earnest and upset as she stopped on the street to look up at Hagrid.

“You want to know the truth?” said Hagrid seriously. “The truth is that the boy you met just loves mocking people. Wizarding folk, wizards and witches, are good at accepting everyone - women, gay people, people of different races - we’re great at accepting everyone, except for the people like us in the biggest way. People who come from Muggle families.

“But that doesn’t make it right, and it doesn’t make it true. You can fit in; you can be a great witch if you set your mind to it. Never let anyone make you think differently because they don’t like things that are different. Okay?”

He looked underneath his thick eyebrows at her. At last, Darcey’s face broke into a smile.

“... Okay,” she said. “So what is Quidditch?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport, and yes witches do play it too. It’s like - like football in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls - sort of hard to explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuffs are a lot of duffers, but -”

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Darcey gloomily.

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”

“Years and years ago,” said Hagrid.

They bought Darcey’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Here, Darcey went mad. Determined to become a powerful witch, she decided she had to narrow her extra reading down to a specific point of focus, and she went for the intricacies of magic itself. Magical theory, learning, and mastery as well as potions and magical plants and creatures - those were her choices outside of school.

“I figure I’ll learn everything I need to about wizarding culture and history over time and at Hogwarts,” she told Hagrid excitedly, lifting up her gigantic pile of extra books and tottering under the weight. “But I must learn as much as possible about magic, if I’m to become a powerful witch!”

“Half that magic you couldn’t even work yet. At least half,” said Hagrid, bewildered. “You’ll need a lot more study before you get to that level.”

“But there’s no harm in starting my studies early. Right? Come on, Hagrid, they’re books to do with school. Parents usually want their kids to take an interest in that,” Darcey sighed, peeking big green bespectacled eyes out from behind the pile of books in her arms.

“Well, all right,” said Hagrid skeptically. “Just do me a favor and don’t practice anything that says it’s past first or second year, okay? We don’t want you passing out.”

Darcey also bought wizarding versions of some of her favorite hobbies while around Flourish and Blotts. She bought a record player and albums from a popular male rock band called The Weird Sisters, as well as a poster of The Weird Sisters to hang on her bedroom wall. She bought a series of popular comics called The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle as well.

To her fascination, all the pictures moved. The album covers, the poster subjects, and the comics. Even the artistic images writhed and moved around their covers as though alive, and the person-like sentient subjects waved and made personality appropriate movements and signs from the pictures, sometimes disappearing from the frame for a while altogether.

“That’s all our pictures - art, photographs. It all moves around,” said Hagrid. “Most wizards and witches can’t believe it when Muggleborns tell them everything just stays put in Muggle pictures. Very strange indeed.”

Hagrid finally put his foot down and wouldn’t let Darcey buy a solid gold cauldron (“It says pewter on your list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Darcey (the expensive kit, complete with crystal vials and expensive black dragonhide protective gloves), Darcey herself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Darcey’s list again.

“Just your wand left - oh yeah, and I still haven’t got you a birthday present.”

Darcey felt herself go red.

“You don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell you what, I’ll get your animal. Not a toad, toads went out of fashion years ago, you’d be laughed at - and I don’t like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get you an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry your mail and everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Darcey now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. She couldn’t stop thanking Hagrid fervently.

“Don’t mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’t expect you’ve had a lot of presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place for wands, Ollivanders, and you gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Darcey had really been looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Darcey felt strangely as though she had entered a very strict library; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Darcey jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Darcey awkwardly.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Darcey Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Darcey. Darcey wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for Transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it’s really the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, of course.”

Mr Ollivander had come so close that he and Darcey were almost nose to nose. Darcey could see herself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Darcey’s forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head and then, to Darcey’s relief, spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Mr Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“Er - yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr Ollivander sharply. 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Darcey noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Mr Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now - Miss Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er - well, I’m right-handed,” said Darcey.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Darcey from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch’s wand.”

Darcey suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. 

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Darcey took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Darcey tried. And tried. She had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands mounted higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - black walnut and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Darcey took the striking black wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Darcey’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Sorry,” said Darcey, “but what’s curious?”

Mr Ollivander fixed Darcey with his pale stare.

“First, there is the meaning behind your wand wood. And I will explain why it is interesting in a moment. 

“Less common than the standard walnut wand, that of black walnut seeks a mistress of good instincts and powerful insight. Black walnut is a very handsome wood, but not the easiest to master. It has one pronounced quirk, which is that it is abnormally attuned to inner conflict, and loses power dramatically if its possessor practises any form of self-deception.

“If the witch or wizard is unable or unwilling to be honest with themselves or others, the wand often fails to perform adequately and must be matched with a new owner if it is to regain its former prowess. Paired with a sincere, self-aware owner, however, it becomes one of the most loyal and impressive wands of all, with a particular flair in all kinds of charmwork.

“Now, why is this interesting? 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its mate - why, its mate gave you that scar.”

Darcey swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.”

Darcey shivered. She wasn’t sure she liked Mr Ollivander too much. The thought of doing great things should have been welcome, but somehow in this context it was just creepy and overwhelming. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and Mr Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

-

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Darcey and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Darcey didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; she didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Darcey’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Darcey only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder.

“Got time for a bite to eat before your train leaves,” he said.

He bought Darcey a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Darcey kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Darcey? You’re very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Darcey wasn’t sure she could explain. She’d just had the best birthday of her life - and yet - she chewed her hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” she said at last. “Before I’ve even done anything, I mean. All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all yet! How can they expect great things from me already? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for! I don’t know what happened when Vol-, sorry - I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows, he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’t you worry, Darcey. You’re one of the keenest kids I’ve met so far, and everyone learns fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yourself. I know it’s hard. You’ve been singled out, and that’s always hard. But you’ll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, as a matter of fact. And after that… just think what Quirrell said. You’ve got your whole life as a witch ahead of you.”

Darcey nodded. “I meant what I said,” she added, determination forming over her features. “I want to prove myself - to myself as much as to anyone else. Those extra books on magic will be a start. There’s just so much exciting knowledge out there that I can learn… so many future options to choose from.”

“Well, luckily you’ve got a few years to figure it out,” Hagrid chuckled. “Hey, you know what you could do? Do you remember the deputy headmistress, Professor McGonagall, from your acceptance letter?”

Darcey nodded curiously.

“Write to her this summer, while you’re reading and studying! She’s usually a rather strict sort, but I think she’d like you. She loves tutoring keen young witches who ask for her help. 

“You could ask her how to practice spells and potions, or about what you’re reading, or about what you should study and what you should memorize. She’d be great for that! Ask her for study and training tips. She’s much less of a stickler for rules or a stickler for needless knowledge than one might expect, and she’s brilliant - especially with magic, but she was a Halfblood, so she could probably answer just about any question you had. She could teach you how to practice magic, and how to memorize important sections of readings, without you having to memorize the whole thing as though you’d just swallowed the textbook.”

“... I’ll do that,” said Darcey thoughtfully. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

Hagrid helped Darcey onto the train that would take her back to the Dursleys, then handed her an envelope.

“Your ticket for Hogwarts,” he said. “First of September - King’s Cross - it’s all on your ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with your owl, she knows how to find just about anyone… See you soon, Darcey.”

The train pulled out of the station. Darcey wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; she rose in her seat and pressed her nose against the window, but she blinked and Hagrid had gone.


	5. Darcey Five

_Darcey Five_

Darcey’s last month with the Dursleys in some ways wasn’t fun. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t shut Darcey in her cupboard, force her to do anything, or shout at her - in fact, they didn’t speak to her at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Darcey in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

Darcey kept to her room, with her new owl for company. She had decided to call her owl Hedwig, a name she had found in A History of Magic. Her school books were very interesting. She lay on her bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before she went to sleep, Darcey ticked off another day on the piece of paper she had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first.

Dudley, unlike his parents, was actually friendly to Darcey, as well as very curious about her new world. He sat on the floor of her bedroom, wide-eyed, as she told him riveting stories and pieces of information from what she had already learned of the wizarding world. She waved her hands theatrically from her bed, face excited and eyes big.

Dudley, a video game fanatic, was entranced. “You’re like a fantasy game character now!” he said excitedly. “You have a specialized weapon and everything!”

Darcey blushed, pleased.

Darcey also tried to pay Dudley back for all his years of kindness with her new secret wellspring of Muggle money. They visited countless shops as she bought him even more new things than he already had. She had promised to buy Dudley whatever he wanted - as long as he never told his parents about her secret fortune. “I don’t think Muggles could take away the Potter accounts, but just in case,” she warned him.

“My lips are sealed,” he assured her.

“You never to worry about money again,” said Darcey, smiling. “That’s my thanks for all you did for me as a kid. I’ll send you money every month when we’re both adults, and if you ever have any trouble, you just let me know.”

She also wrote to Professor McGonagall through Hedwig, as Hagrid had suggested. She gave Hedwig the first letter, told Hedwig uncertainly to give it to Professor Minerva McGonagall at Hogwarts, and Hedwig had swooped away. A bit to Darcey’s surprise, in under two days Professor McGonagall had responded back and the letter did reach her back through Hedwig.

_Yes, I would be willing to tutor you. I am always willing to help new students, most especially smart young witches from a Muggle background, with anything they wish to learn. I have attached some study suggestions I have written. Write back to me this summer with any questions you have._

_Professor M. McGonagall_

Darcey’s eyes widened. Attached to the letter were at least ten full sheets of parchment paper, chock-filled with writing.

Darcey read them all and took each and every suggestion. She learned the memorization techniques Professor McGonagall had outlined, learned to look out for and memorize the important sections of each school book that Professor McGonagall had highlighted for her, and she began practicing potions and spells. She learned the fire spell first, so that she could light a magically hovering fire underneath her cauldron, the window open, and practice potions in her bedroom. After that she practiced both spells and potions at least well into the first year level, with Professor McGonagall’s help and tips. She got an early, steady foundation and head start.

She didn’t know how far ahead people from wizarding families would be, so she hoped that would be enough.

She also read through and memorized the important sections from her extra books on magical craft, magical theory, potions, and magical plants and creatures. She used that last month to cram her head full of as much training and knowledge on the art of magic itself as was possible to have.

Her history school book, A History of Magic, was the only thing that taught her anything about the culture and practices of the actual world she’d be entering - she did read entirely through and memorize all the important sections of that book as well. She got a thorough grounding on the basic outline of the wizarding world and its history, but that was about it. She couldn’t have memorized everything, she’d needed a specific point of focus, so she just hoped she could trust that she would learn enough about the wizarding world over her time inside it.

Quite frankly, she’d been more interested in the art of magical theory than in the intricacies of wizarding culture anyway.

By the end of the summer, could she regurgitate whole pages word for word? No. But she’d memorized all the vocabulary, buzzwords, and important pieces of information, as well as being well on her way to going above and beyond in actual magical practice. She felt that was more important. It was good to keep ahead, she had learned from Professor McGonagall, whose lessons would stick with her on her road to becoming an accomplished witch. She finally felt like she was learning skills and on her way to graduation and one of those fanciful careers, so it was all quite exciting. Darcey began taking her wand around with her in her pocket everywhere she went - she needed it even for potions, so she made sure to keep it handy.

Professor McGonagall’s replies had gotten longer and warmer by the end of the summer. She said that Darcey asked bright questions and Darcey felt that Professor McGonagall had become rather fond of her.

On the last day of August she thought she’d better speak to her aunt and uncle about getting to King’s Cross station the next day, so she went down into the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. She cleared her throat to let them know she was there. Only Dudley looked directly at her.

“Er - Uncle Vernon?”

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

“Er - I need to be at King’s Cross Station tomorrow to - to go to Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”

Grunt. Darcey supposed that meant yes.

“Thank you.”

She was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.

“Funny way to get to a witch’s school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?”

Darcey didn’t say anything.

“Where is this school, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Darcey, realizing this for the first time. She pulled the ticket Hagrid had given her out of her pocket.

“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o’clock,” she read.

Her aunt and uncle stared.

“Platform what?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no platform nine and three-quarters.”

“It’s on my ticket.”

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of them. You’ll see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”

“Why are you going to London?” Darcey asked, trying to keep things friendly.

“I’m going to the hospital,” growled Uncle Vernon. “I’m having that ruddy tail removed.”

-

Darcey woke at five o’clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. She got up and pulled on her clothes because she didn’t want to walk into the station in her witch’s robes - she’d change into her uniform on the train. She checked her Hogwarts list yet again to make sure she had everything she needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced her bedroom, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Darcey’s huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Dudley had been seated next to Darcey, and they had set off.

They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Darcey’s trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for her. Darcey thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, girl. Platform nine - platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Darcey turned and saw the Dursleys’ car drive away. Her aunt and uncle were laughing, her cousin with his worried face pressed against the back window. Darcey’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth was she going to do? She was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. She’d have to ask someone.

She stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Darcey couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Darcey was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Darcey asked for the train at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Darcey was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, she had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and she had no idea how to do it; she was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk she could hardly lift, a pocket full of witch’s gold, a magic wand, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell her something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. She wondered if she should get out her wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment, a group of people passed just behind her and she caught a few words of what they were saying.

“- packed with Muggles, of course -”

Darcey swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Darcey’s in front of him - and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Darcey pushed her cart after them. They stopped and so did she, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ mother.

“Nine and three quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand, “Mum, can’t I go…”

“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.”

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Darcey watched, careful not to blink in case she missed it - but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

“Fred, you next,” said the plump woman.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear.”

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone - but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier - he was almost there - and then, quite suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

“Excuse me,” Darcey said to the plump woman.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.”

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

“Yes,” said Darcey. “The thing is - the thing is, I don’t know how to -”

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and Darcey nodded.

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

“Er - okay,” said Darcey.

She pushed her trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

She started to walk toward it. People jostled her on their way to platforms nine and ten. Darcey walked more quickly. She was going to smash right into that barrier and then she’d be in trouble - leaning forward on her cart, she broke into a heavy run - the barrier was coming nearer and nearer - she wouldn’t be able to stop - the cart was out of control - she was a foot away - she closed her eyes ready for the crash -

It didn’t come… she kept on running… she opened her eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock. Darcey looked behind her and saw a wrought iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. She had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. First years could even be seen through the windows, racing each other excitedly down the train corridor. Darcey pushed her cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. She passed a round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”

“Oh, Neville,” she heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Darcey pressed on through the crowd until she found an empty compartment near the end of the train.

And this is where we pause. Because this moment is where Darcey Potter - black walnut wand, large print colorful T shirts and long sleeved flannels, big wild curls and high ponytails, semi-rimless glasses, of comics, gaming, rock music, and old souvenirs from fun times with friends, fiery but warm and teasing - this moment is where Darcey Potter truly diverges from her three fellows completely.


	6. Darcey Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one will be closest to canon, for obvious reasons - Harry was a Gryffindor! :)
> 
> There will, however, be important differences. So this chapter will start out similar to canon and then start to diverge much more widely.
> 
> None of the other girls will have these experiences. For this reason, chapters will start to come further apart.

_Darcey Six_

Darcey pressed on through the crowd until she found an empty compartment near the end of the train. She put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and heave her trunk toward the train door. She tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice dropped it painfully on her foot.

“Want a hand?” It was one of the red-haired twins she’d followed through the barrier. Darcey paused in surprise, but before she could respond he’d called to his twin, “Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

“Oh, it’s alright,” said Darcey, recovering and smiling warmly as the second twin approached. “I’ve got it.” Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. She took out her black walnut wand and levitated the trunk softly up the train steps, tucking it away in a corner of the compartment. 

“Ooh, fancy,” the twins said as one, only somewhat sarcastically, grinning. 

“You already know your stuff pretty well for a first year,” said George.

“Guess you won’t need our help,” said Fred, not ruffled in the slightest. 

But Darcey had pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What’s that?” said Fred suddenly, pointing at her lightning scar. 

“Blimey,” said George, “are you -?”

“She is,” said Fred. “Aren’t you?” he added to Darcey.

“What?” said Darcey.

“Darcey Potter,” chorused the twins. 

“Oh, her,” said Darcey. “I mean, yes, I am.”

The two boys gawked at her, and Darcey felt herself turning red. Then, to her relief, a voice came floating toward the doorway of the compartment where they were standing.

“Fred? George? Are you there?”

“Coming, Mum.”

With a last look at Darcey, the twins left.

Darcey hopped up the train steps to her compartment and sat down next to the window where, half-hidden, she could watch the red-haired family on the platform, and hear what they were saying. Their mother had taken out her handkerchief.

“Ron, you’ve got something on your nose.”

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

“Mum - geroff!” He wriggled free.

“Aah, has inkle Ronnie got something on his nosie?” said one of the twins, Fred, Darcey thought.

“Shut up,” said Ron.

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.

“He’s coming now.”

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He had already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes and Darcey noticed a shiny silver badge on his chest with the letter P on it.

“Can’t stay long, Mother,” he said. “I’m up front, the Prefects have got two compartments to themselves -”

“Oh, are you a Prefect, Percy?” said Fred, with an air of great surprise. “You should have said something, we had no idea.”

“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it,” said George. “Once -”

“Or twice -”

“A minute -”

“All summer -”

“Oh, shut up,” said Percy the Prefect.

“How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?” said George.

“Because he’s a Prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All right, dear, well, have a good term - send me an owl when you get there.”

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.

“Now, you two - this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you’ve - you’ve blown up a toilet or -”

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”

“Great idea, though, thanks, Mum.”

“It’s not funny! And look after Ron.”

“Don’t worry, Ickle Ronniekins is safe with us.”

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

“Hey, Mum, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?”

Darcey leaned back quickly so they couldn’t see her looking.

“You know that black-haired girl who was near us in the station? Tiny, with glasses? Know who she is?”

“Who?”

“Darcey Potter!”

Darcey heard the little girl’s voice.

“Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see her, Mum, oh please…”

“You’ve already seen her, Ginny, and the poor girl isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo.”

“I want to see my idol,” said Ginny stubbornly, firm and fierce. “The girl I want to be just like someday. I want to see her.”

“Ginny, let’s not overwhelm her and say we did, yes? She’s only eleven,” their mother scolded. “Is she really Darcey Potter, Fred? How do you know?”

“Asked her. Saw the scar on her forehead. It’s really there - like lightning.”

“Poor dear - no wonder she was alone, I wondered. She was ever so polite when she asked how to get onto the platform.”

“Never mind that, do you think she remembers what You-Know-Who looks like?”

Their mother suddenly became very stern. 

“I forbid you to ask her, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though she needs reminding of that on her first day at school.”

“All right, keep your hair on.”

A whistle sounded.

“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them goodbye, and their younger sister began to cry.

“Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.”

“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

“George!”

“Only joking, Mum.”

The train began to move. Darcey saw the boys’ mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Darcey watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Darcey felt a great leap of excitement. She didn’t know what she was going to - but it had to be better than what she was leaving behind.

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest red-headed boy came in.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Darcey. “Everywhere else is full.”

Darcey shook her head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Darcey and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Darcey saw he still had a black mark on his nose.

“Hey, Ron.” 

The twins were back.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Darcey,” said the other twin, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.”

“Bye,” said Darcey and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them. 

“Are you really Darcey Potter?” Ron blurted out.

Darcey nodded.

“Oh - well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said Ron. “And have you really got - you know…”

He pointed at Darcey’s forehead.

Darcey pulled back her bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared.

“So that’s where You-Know-Who -?”

“Yes,” said Darcey, “but I can’t remember it.”

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.

“Well,” said Darcey slowly, “I remember a jet of green light and a pain in my forehead. And I remember that he… You-Know-Who… he had this really horrible, cruel laugh. But I don’t remember anything else.”

“He was laughing as he made the attack?” Ron looked stunned and appalled. “That’s horrible!”

“Yes,” Darcey agreed simply, “it is. So… are all your family wizards and witches?” She found Ron just as interesting as Ron found her.

“Er - yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”

“Because wizards and witches don’t handle banking and money,” Darcey realized. “The goblins do that.”

“Right.” Ron nodded. “It’s a Muggle thing, human accountants.”

“So you must know so much magic already,” Darcey enthused. “I’ve been trying spells and potions from my books back at home, studying magical theory and memorizing magical plants and creatures, but I don’t know far I’ve gotten. How far have you gotten?”

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about - rather like the Potters, Darcey’s own family, except Ron had actually grown up with his.

For some reason, Ron’s ears went dark red. “Well… I mean… I haven’t really…” He was shifting, looking everywhere but at her. “That’s Hogwarts stuff,” he whispered.

Too late, Darcey realized her mistake. She was ahead of the game - no one from a wizarding family practiced magic before Hogwarts, because they knew they’d learn everything they needed at Hogwarts.

“Well - I didn’t mean -” she began awkwardly, blushing herself. “Sorry. I must have seemed obnoxious. I just… I have a lot to prove, you know? A lot of high expectations to live up to,” she admitted. “It’s a lot of pressure. Especially coming from a Muggle family.”

Ron seemed to relax, his embarrassment fading. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he said slowly, “but yeah, it must be a lot to take on, mustn’t it? That’s why you’re so keen. So… you don’t have any special magical knowledge or powers?” he asked hesitantly.

“No,” Darcey admitted honestly. “I have no idea how I survived what I did.”

Ron seemed to relax even further.

“What is it like, living with Muggles?” he asked curiously.

“Horrible - well, they’re not all horrible. I had lots of good Muggle friends as children. And my cousin was good to me - he saw me like a smaller sister. My aunt and uncle are terrible, though, strict and harsh and bullying. Wish I’d had three wizard brothers, or a little witch sister.”

“I have six siblings,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. “The only one who doesn’t have to worry about high expectations is Ginny, because she’s the baby and the only girl. But I have five older brothers. I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left - Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a Prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

Ron reached into his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my Dad for being made a Prefect, but they couldn’t aff - I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink again. He seemed to think he’d said too much, because he went back to staring out of the window.

Darcey didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl. After all, she’d never had any of her own money in her life until a month ago, and she told Ron so quite kindly, all about the secondhand clothes and no birthday presents, then later having to rely on her cousin Dudley for everything. This seemed to cheer Ron up.

“... and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about being a witch or about my parents or Voldemort -”

Ron gasped.

“What?” said Darcey.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people -”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” said Darcey, “I just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to learn… I bet,” she added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying her a lot lately, “I bet in spite of all my study, I’m the worst in the class.”

“You won’t be. With how much you’ve said you’ve already done? Keep that up over the years and you’ll be the best in the class, not the worst. I can’t think of a single witch or wizard I know who started studying and practicing magic before it was assigned to them - not even the really good ones. So you’ll end up amazing. Besides, there’s loads of people at Hogwarts who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough.”

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, “Anything off the cart, dears?”

Darcey, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leaped to her feet, but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that he’d brought sandwiches. Darcey went out into the corridor.

The woman had all sorts of sweets she’d never seen before, nothing like the Muggle candies Dudley used to buy for her. Darcey got a container of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, a packet of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, a Chocolate Frog, a Pumpkin Pasty, a Cauldron Cake, a Licorice Wand, and then she got a second one of each of those things for Ron, who she suspected didn’t have the money to afford sweets. She paid a pile of Sickles and Knuts, brought it all back to the compartment, and tipped it onto an empty seat.

“I got a second one of everything for you,” said Darcey in a no-nonsense way, all business. She sat down. “So eat up.” She had taken a rather motherly tone.

Ron flushed. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me!”

“I don’t,” said Darcey. “I just know how it feels not to have the money to buy any sweets with. Now I have the money and I have someone to share it with. So put down that package of lumpy, dry sandwiches in your hand and eat some damn candy.”

“My Mum made this for me…” Ron muttered, his ears pink again.

“That was very nice of her. And does it seem appetizing?” said Darcey expectantly, frowning.

“... No. It’s all dry, and she always forgets I don’t like corned beef,” Ron admitted. “She hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Darcey sighed, “I’ll trade you the sandwiches for your half of the candy, and I’ll eat the sandwiches.”

“Oh, you don’t want this,” said Ron quickly, and he looked torn. “Well… all right,” he admitted.

It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through the pasties, cakes, and candies. (The sandwiches lay forgotten.)

“What are these?” Darcey asked Ron, holding up her pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” She was starting to feel that nothing would surprise her.

“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”

“What?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know - Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect - well, mostly it’s boys who do the collecting, but you get the idea. All the cards have famous witches and wizards on them. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Darcey unwrapped her Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed the moving, smiling picture of a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore!” said Darcey.

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said Ron. “Let me check my frog. I might get Agrippa.”

Darcey turned over her card and read:

_Albus Dumbledore_

_Currently Headmaster of Hogwarts_

_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling._

Darcey was immediately fascinated. “You can have all my other cards,” she told Ron decisively, “but I’m reading their backs before you get them, and looking at their pictures, and I’m keeping this one. To commemorate my very first Chocolate Frog.”

“Sounds nutter, but sure, suit yourself,” said Ron, puzzled. “Anyway, I got Morgana and I’ve got about six of her.” Casually, he shrugged and went back to the all-important act of eating.

Darcey tucked the Chocolate Frog card into the bottom of her trunk and forgot about it, turning to eat her frog at last.

Next Darcey opened a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned Darcey. “When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor - you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-flavored one once.”

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner.

“Bleeargh - see? Sprouts.”

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Darcey got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end of a funny grey one Ron wouldn’t even touch, which turned out to be pepper.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced boy Darcey had passed on platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” said Darcey bracingly.

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him…”

He left.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t talk.”

The rat was still snoozing in Ron’s lap. 

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway -”

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl wasn’t listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand. 

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

“Er - all right.”

He cleared his throat.

_“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,_

_Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”_

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, it’s not very good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s all worked for me.”

“It’s not a real spell,” Darcey confirmed. “I’ve been studying magical theory and all spells are one to two words with Latin origins. They’re decided using Arithmancy - the magical power of numbers decides which letters and how many syllables to use.”

“Wow, I had no idea, I hadn’t read that,” said the girl, fascinated. “I focused my extra studies on wizarding history and culture.”

“I did the opposite,” Darcey confirmed. “I studied magical theory and the craft of spellwork, potions, the types of creatures and animals, that kind of a thing.”

And so they were off. They traded books they’d read, studies they’d focused on, things they’d learned. Darcey was delighted - finally, she had met her match. They learned that while Darcey was good at memorizing key concepts and using them creatively, this girl was good at regurgitating whole pages of rote text.

Neville looked overwhelmed and Ron sat in the corner, in a very bad mood.

“Ron is sensitive,” Darcey observed at last. “He didn’t do any extra study. We’ve upset him.”

Ron sat forward heatedly. “I’m not sensitive!”

“Well, that’s understandable,” said the girl matter of factly, as though Ron had never spoken. “But you know, you should have studied, it’s really your own fault that you didn’t.”

Ron’s glare was getting worse, so trying to smile, Darcey uneasily intervened.

“Are you Muggleborn?” she asked curiously. “Because I’m from a Muggle family, and I’m running under the theory that people like us feel we have more to prove and therefore compensate more.”

“That’s fascinating,” said the girl fervently, and she began talking in a very fast and excited way. “Nobody in my family’s magic at all. It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased of course. I mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard! I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, and as I can see this other girl has focused on the more practical aspects of study. It will be interesting to compare the two approaches. I just hope what we’ve done will be enough.”

“So do I,” Darcey admitted. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

“Yes,” said the girl, analytical and a good deal calmer and more canny. “I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?”

She was looking solely at Darcey, but since Ron was now gaping with his mouth slightly open, Darcey decided to take pity on Ron and introduce him first. “This is Ron Weasley,” she said. “And I’m Darcey Potter.”

“Are you really?” said Hermione. “Well that explains the Muggle background and the need to prove yourself. I know all about you, of course - you’re in Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. But I’m not going to ask you about yourself, because that would be rude.”

Ron looked down resentfully, silent.

Darcey looked sideways at him and smiled. “Both ways are fine,” she said. Ron looked up hurriedly and Darcey favored him with a small, kind, warm smile. Ron relaxed a little. “I’ve decided,” she told Hermione, “on the cultural front, to immerse myself and learn as I go.”

“Oh, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me. But I can understand that,” Hermione admitted. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in? I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it. But I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad…”

“What do you think, Ron?” said Darcey loudly and pointedly, and Ron started. “Ron’s from an all-wizard family, so he must know all about the Hogwarts houses,” she told Hermione, trying to include Ron.

Ron at last cottoned on. “Ah, right.” He cleared his throat in an official sort of way. “Well, yeah, Gryffindor’s probably the best. Gryffindor is the house of bravery, courage, and nerve - on a literal, physical level we believe in doing the impossible. What’s great is that we’re nice to all the other houses and all the other houses like us, aside from our rivalry with Slytherin. And all the other houses usually side with us over Slytherin. All my family were in Gryffindor - all my older brothers. My Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, though Ravenclaws do have a reputation as being kind of weird and nerdy.

“But I don’t want to be a Hufflepuff. Everyone says they’re idiots. And with a family full of Gryffindors? Imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”

“That’s the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?”

“Yeah,” Ron admitted.

“I heard all the Dark wizards and witches come from there,” said Darcey. “From Hagrid, who took me shopping for my school things in Diagon Alley.”

“It’s basically true. The house is very Dark - and in wizarding terms, that means nasty, violent magic,” said Ron seriously. “I swear, they’re all mad in Slytherin.”

“You can stay with us,” Darcey told Hermione, who had been listening closely in surprising silence.

“Thanks! But I wanted to help -” Hermione looked around and Neville’s seat was empty. He’d slipped out while the three of them were talking. “Oh, poor Neville,” she sighed. “He came into my compartment crying and I was trying to help him.”

“He has to look after himself. That’s part of the game,” said Darcey simply.

“That’s actually true,” Ron admitted. “I mean, I knew ahead of time my brothers wouldn’t be taking special care of me. It’s boarding school, after all, even if it is Hogwarts.”

“Come on,” said Darcey, standing. “I’ll help you get the things from your compartment and bring them to ours.” She and Hermione stood. Ron looked unenthused, but didn’t protest.

“All right,” said Hermione. “But then you two had better get your robes on, I expect we’ll be there soon.”

So in Hermione’s empty compartment with its book still lying on the seat, Darcey showed Hermione the levitation spell, which Hermione immediately set to trying enthusiastically, and by the time they were back in the compartment with Hermione’s floating trunk, the two girls were excitedly chattering about spells. Ron just watched them in exasperation, head in his hand. But he and Darcey did stand up and slip their black Hogwarts robes on over their clothes in the compartment. Ron’s were a little short for him, his trainers could be seen sticking out of the bottom, but with surprising sensitivity Hermione had stopped criticizing Ron, though she must have noticed the poorness of his clothes and the dirt on his nose in comparison to her own single child status and relatively well to do things.

“So what do your oldest brothers do now that they’ve left, anyway?” Darcey asked, trying to include Ron again. “I’ve heard about wizarding careers; there’s such a huge variety to choose from.”

“Oh, I know!” said Hermione. “And so many potential subjects to learn… It’s so exciting!” She and Darcey shared a smile.

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons and Bill’s in Africa doing something for Gringotts,” said Ron.

“What, like curse-breaking?” said Darcey curiously.

“Exactly like curse-breaking, actually. That’s what he does,” said Ron wryly. 

“Oh, how thrilling!” said Hermione.

“Did you guys hear about Gringotts?” Ron asked. “It’s been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don’t suppose either of you get that with the Muggles - someone tried to rob a high security vault.”

Darcey and Hermione stared.

“Really? What happened to them?” Darcey asked.

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t been caught. My dad says it must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts, but they don’t think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ‘Course, everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

“It could be him,” said Hermione intently. “I read that You-Know-Who’s body was never found. A lot of people theorize that he’s out there somewhere with very weakened powers.”

Darcey turned this news over in her mind, troubled. She was starting to get a prickle of fear every time You-Know-Who was mentioned. She supposed this was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying.

“We should stop talking about You-Know-Who. It’s upsetting Darcey,” said Hermione with typical blunt, perceptive matter of factness.

“Oh, I’m really fine.” Darcey tried to smile.

“Well good for you, because I wouldn’t be,” Ron muttered darkly. “Who wants to talk about that tosser, anyway? Let’s talk something more cheerful. You two - what’s your Quidditch team?”

“Thanks for not assuming I’m not interested because I’m a girl,” said Darcey wryly. “Some boy in Diagon Alley did that.”

“That’s horrible!” said Hermione heatedly, indignant.

“It’s also stupid,” said Ron, staring at her, “because there’s a whole professional Quidditch team specifically dedicated to women. My sister loves them. They’re called the Holyhead Harpies. But women are all over Quidditch. 

“So - Quidditch team?”

“I don’t know much about sports or flying.” Hermione smiled uneasily, nervously.

“I don’t know any teams,” Darcey admitted.

“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. And instead of pouncing on that weakness, he said, “Oh, you wait, it’s the best game in the world!” And he proceeded to try and explain it to them. 

But he had just started when the compartment door slid open yet again, and it wasn’t Neville the toadless boy or even one of Ron’s brothers this time. Hermione and Darcey never would find out that day just what was so great about Quidditch.

Three boys entered, and Darcey recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s robe shop. The mocking, wealthy one who didn’t like people from Muggle families and was from a whole all-wizard family of Slytherins. He was looking at Darcey with a lot more interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train that Darcey Potter’s in this compartment. Which one of you is it?” He was looking between the girls.

“It’s her,” said Hermione, pointing at Darcey. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

“A Muggleborn,” the pale boy sneered, hearing the name, and Hermione flushed an angry, embarrassed red and went suddenly silent. “Well,” he turned to Darcey, who had become colder and more stiff, “this is Crabbe and this is Goyle.” They were both thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards. “And my name’s Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snicker. Draco Malfoy looked at him.

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” Draco Malfoy himself was dressed almost absurdly well, better than Hermione or even Darcey.

He turned back to Darcey. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. And as for a Muggleborn? You shouldn’t be associating with one at all.”

“Well that’s quite rude!” said Hermione indignantly. “I think -!”

“Did I ask you what you thought?” the pale boy asked, smiling quite nastily, and Crabbe and Goyle cracked their knuckles. Hermione went silent, looking suddenly rather faint. 

The pale boy turned back to Darcey.

“My point is, you don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand to shake Darcey’s, but Darcey didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” she said with surprising softness, her eyes narrowed and deadly.

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but he lowered his hand and a pink tinge did appear on his pale cheeks.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. “Unless you’re a bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know what was good for them either. You hang around with riffraff like a Muggleborn, the Weasleys, and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

Both Darcey and Ron had stood up.

“Ignore them!” Hermione hissed, trying to pull them back down. “Just ignore them! We can’t be seen breaking the rules on our first day -!”

“And just what,” said Darcey louder, glaring at Malfoy, “would ignoring them do? Are they going to follow the rules? Do you really think they’ll just go away?”

Malfoy smiled nastily. Hermione fell suddenly silent.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” he sneered at Darcey and Ron, who was very red in the face.

Darcey pulled out her wand and pointed it right at Draco Malfoy and his cronies. Their eyes widened and they backed up just as she whispered a spell and a jet of fire shot itself straight at them. 

Hermione shrieked and when the fire magically dissipated, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were gone. They’d run away.

“You could have hurt them!” Hermione squealed, mortified. 

“They’d have hurt me,” said Darcey and she sat back down with a sigh of contentment. “That felt good,” she decided.

Ron and Hermione were both gaping at her, but Darcey’s temper had been appeased and she was now quite cheerful.

“You know, Hermione,” said Ron, “there’s one definite thing I’ve learned from all my older brothers and it is this: no one, not even the Prefects, follows the rules at Hogwarts. Think about it. It’s crammed full of training witches and wizards.” He sat down, quite recovered, and Hermione now looked a bit pale.

“Relax,” said Darcey. “Think of all the spells you already know. Good thing, right? You’ll need them.”

“I… I suppose so,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“Anyway, you’ve met Malfoy before?” Ron asked curiously.

Darcey explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they’d been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.”

The train could be heard rumbling along as they all processed this.

“We must be nearly there,” said Hermione suddenly. “So here’s hoping for Gryffindor, I suppose.”

“Here, here,” said Ron weakly.

Darcey peered out of the window. It was getting dark. She could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

A voice suddenly echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

Darcey’s stomach lurched with nerves, Hermione began talking about nothing at all in a very fast manner (which Darcey realized was her way of being nervous), and Ron, who was glaring feebly at Hermione, suddenly looked pale under his freckles. The three of them joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out onto a tiny, dark platform. Darcey shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Darcey heard a familiar voice with a thick West Country accent, “First years! First years over here! All right there, Darcey?”

Hagrid’s big, hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“Come on, follow me - any more first years? Mind your step, now! First years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Darcey thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much, not even Hermione. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

“You’ll get your first sight of Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, “just round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more than four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Darcey, Ron, and Hermione were followed quickly into their boat by Neville.

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then - FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door. 

“Everyone here? You there, still got your toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.


End file.
